


Summer Sun

by mangochi



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 22:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14986553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: T’Challa and M’Baku go on vacation.





	Summer Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Something soft

“You do not _have_ to,” M’Baku says, frowning up at the ceiling. “Say you are busy. It's true enough.”

T’Challa sighs, but not unfondly. It is a conversation they have had with increasing frequency throughout the past few weeks, delivered through messages at first and then M’Baku himself, harried and petulant at the city gates. “That excuse runs dry eventually, you know. I should show my face to these events on occasion.”

“Consider this,” M’Baku says, pushing himself up on his elbows, and it suddenly becomes far more difficult for T’Challa to concentrate. M’Baku is sprawled naked over T’Challa’s bed, his own guest chambers in the palace pointedly unoccupied, the sheets thrown lazily over his legs and leaving nothing at all to the imagination. “You don’t show your face, you remain the mysterious king of a mysterious land, and we are both better off for it.”

T’Challa’s eyebrows lift. “I would consider it, if I didn't know that the advice was given out of purely selfish motivations.” He reaches out and draws a fingertip across M’Baku’s collarbone, holds back a smile at the way M’Baku tries not to shiver at the light touch. “It will not be that bad,” he murmurs. He traces along a tattooed line on M’Baku’s chest, following it up to the curve of his shoulder and down again to the point. “A few days, at the most.”

“You were gone longer, the last time you said that.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” T’Challa says mildly. “The German ambassador had a bad case of food poisoning. It could hardly be helped.”

“Bah.” M’Baku brushes T’Challa’s hand away. “Excuses.”

“Please don't sulk.”

M’Baku puts on an expression of outrage. “You dare _accuse_ me-”

T'Challa bends and kisses him, feels M’Baku grumbling slowly cease against his lips.

“That is cheating,” M’Baku says, when T’Challa pulls away. He looks appeased, at least, and T’Challa looks at him for a moment, thinking.

“You could come with me,” he says. He watches as M’Baku’s face transforms from disbelief to amusement to denial, then rapidly back to disbelief. “Think about it,” T’Challa says quickly, sensing an incoming argument. “Discretion is not impossible. We would not even have to reveal your identity if you do not wish it.”

He sets a hand on M’Baku’s bare thigh, strokes over a not quite faded mark there, and smiles innocently when M’Baku stares up at him. “And it would be just you and me. On an island far away.” He slips his hand higher, lets his fingers curve around to rest on the soft skin of M’Baku’s inner thigh. “Well. Okoye will be there, as well, but there is nothing to be done about that.”

“Mm.” M’Baku is wavering now, his eyes flitting between T’Challa’s face and his hand. “I suppose,” he finally says. “If you insist.”

**

“It is...bigger than I remember,” M’Baku says, squinting out over the waves. Looking at him now, T’Challa feels a faint sense of disconnect from reality. M’Baku stands before him, ankle deep in the warm white sand, his linen trousers rolled up to his knees and a big straw hat on his head. The trousers were at T’Challa’s insistence, the hat at Okoye’s. M’Baku agreed to the latter with far less resistance than the former, and T’Challa supposes he should not be surprised that he and Okoye got along so well.

“When was the last you saw it?” T’Challa asks, curious. He steps up beside M’Baku, lets the surf wash over his bare feet. The Hawaiian ambassador was more than eager to offer up one of his personal residences to the Wakandan delegation. It is a modern construction, white-washed concrete and glass overlooking a private bay, and Okoye now claims residence over the entire second floor of the villa. _Better sightlines_ , she said. She sits now in the shade of the lanai behind them, a line of spears leaned up against the railing ready for polishing.

M’Baku picks up a stone, worn smooth from the tide, and sends it spinning out over the incoming waves with a flick of his wrist. It is swallowed without a single bounce, and he snorts. “When I was very young,” he answers, then hesitates a beat. “My father took me.”

“I see.” T’Challa looks out over the ocean, and wonders what it is like through M’Baku’s eyes. Such sights to him are familiar now, nothing overly remarkable. But no, that is not altogether true, he corrects himself. He glances over at M’Baku again, holding himself awkwardly in the new clothing T’Challa provided him with, the breeze tugging at the brim of his floppy hat as he pushes at shirt sleeves that refuse to roll higher up his forearms.

There is nothing about this view that is unremarkable at all.

“What did you think of it?” he asks, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“It was big,” M’Baku says shortly. “What did you expect of me? I was a child.” He takes off his sunhat and puts it on T’Challa’s head, adjusting it fastidiously. “There. You look ridiculous.”

“It looks better on you.” T'Challa raises a hand automatically, holding his hat to his head as the wind picks up.

“Of course it does.” M’Baku takes his free hand, and T’Challa weaves their fingers together.

**

Time passes slowly in this place, in a way that is only possible in a veritable paradise. They are here for a week, three of which are dedicated to the summit itself, and T’Challa intends on making full use of the time remaining. M’Baku shows little interest in venturing out beyond their private beach, and T’Challa sees no reason to encourage otherwise.

M’Baku is swimming now, cutting easily through the waves with broad, powerful strokes. The sun is high in the sky, glittering like glass on the bright blue ocean. T'Challa watches his progress from the shade, drying himself in a hammock with a tablet in his lap. M'Baku did manage to coax him briefly in the water earlier, but T’Challa now prefers to stay landbound when given the choice. He thinks back to a roaring river, icy and merciless beneath his battered body, and he closes his eyes, setting his tablet down carefully.  

The breeze is pleasantly cool, warm sunlight playing across his toes at the end of his hammock, and T’Challa dozes lightly, lulled by the steady crash of waves and gulls overhead.

He is eventually woken by the crunch of sandals on soft white sand, M’Baku’s voice humming a low tune.

T'Challa opens his eyes and watches M’Baku take a long drink from a water bottle, his throat bobbing as he swallows. The sun catches the water still rolling down his body, disappearing into the towel tucked halfheartedly around his waist. The towel is thin, expensive, and utterly useless. T'Challa allows himself to stare for a few seconds before lifting his eyes back up to M’Baku’s face.

“If I’d known you were this lax on vacation, I would've taken you on one sooner,” he says, contemplative.

“It's a _vacation,_ ” M’Baku says. He sets down his water and leans over T’Challa’s seat, and T’Challa shivers as cool drops of water drip onto his bare torso. “Why should I not be relaxed?”

T’Challa cannot remember what he was going to say. He hooks his fingers over the top of M’Baku’s towel instead, runs the backs of his fingers over warm, damp skin. M'Baku makes a small, pleased sound, pressing forward into his touch, and T’Challa fervently thanks Bast for vacations.

“Shall we go inside?” T'Challa murmurs. He glances up into the shadow of M’Baku’s face, M’Baku’s expression hidden by the sun behind his head.

M'Baku makes a great show of looking around the isolated beach. “What for?”

T'Challa shakes his head, but he tilts his chin up obligingly.

M’Baku bends and meets him, and T’Challa tastes the ocean on his lips. He leans back afterwards, grinning foolishly up at the sky, as more water drips on him and M’Baku’s mouth chases the streaks they leave behind.

**

“So this is what you get up to, whenever you are gone?” M’Baku thumbs at T’Challa’s cheek, runs the backs of his fingers over T’Challa’s forehead. “And here I thought it was all work, work, work.”

“No,” T’Challa says truthfully, “this is not what I get up to.” He opens his mouth and accepts the grape that M’Baku offers. Sweet juice bursts over his tongue, mingled with the salt of M’Baku’s skin. The French doors of the bedroom are propped open, the evening breeze stirring the sheer curtains at the windows, and T’Challa has not known a peace like this in years, in decades. Okoye has made herself discreetly scarce, though he knows she is never far off. For now, however, the fantasy of seclusion will hold.

“No?” M’Baku echoes. He leans back against the white pillows, a lazy smile playing across his lips, and T’Challa aches, a clawing hunger that closes fast around his heart.

“Usually, I miss you more.” T’Challa turns his head and presses a kiss to M’Baku’s belly, smiles at the shiver of breath M’Baku exhales at the touch. “So it is a good thing that you came.” He rolls onto his belly, shifting so that he sprawls between M’Baku’s splayed legs, and nuzzles at M’Baku’s hip. Above him, he distantly registers M’Baku setting the plate of fruit carefully on the bedside table.

T’Challa enjoys doing this, which never seems to fail to catch M’Baku off guard. He feels M’Baku’s thighs tense beneath his hands, the lift of M’Baku’s torso when T’Challa finally takes him into his mouth.

“Look at you,” M’Baku says, gruff and affectionate. T’Challa feels himself hardening, arousal slipping slow and warm through him, and he presses his hips against the bed with a pleased hum.

“Ah,” M’Baku sighs, then groans as T’Challa swallows him deeper, loudly and messily. “I won’t last,” he warns, his fingers digging into T’Challa’s shoulders, leaving bruises that will fade long before the end of the night.

T’Challa pulls off slowly, sloppily, watching M’Baku’s teeth press into his lower lip at the lewdness of the sound, and grins up at him. “Then don’t,” he suggests. He mouths at the head of M’Baku’s cock, wraps his fingers around the rest and strokes in time with M’Baku’s rough breathing.

“Fuck,” M’Baku swears, his hands jumping down to clutch at the sheets. “T’Challa-””

“if you wish,” T’Challa says blithely, and he drinks M’Baku down eagerly when he spills down T’Challa’s throat.

**

In the morning, T’Challa dresses in a formal suit, knotting his tie carefully while M’Baku peels an orange into neat sections. He is wearing nothing but a white bathrobe, knotted so lazily at the waist that it does nothing at all to cover his chest. T’Challa suspects that it was done purposefully.

T’Challa glances at his watch, a necessary prop at events like this. Outreaches or not, there is no pressing need to reveal the entirety of Wakanda’s technological secrets so quickly. “The meeting will only take a few hours,” he says. “And I must attend a groundbreaking ceremony after that. Will you-”

M’Baku waves a hand lazily, cutting him off. “I will be fine.”

T’Challa eyes him carefully. “You will stay at the house?”

M'Baku makes a derisive noise, dropping another piece of peel onto the table. “I will not shame your public image, my _king_ , if that is what you’re afraid of.”

“That is not what I meant.” T'Challa pushes his hands into his pockets. “My surveillance only covers the main grounds.”

“I see,” M’Baku says, after a brief pause. He sounds unexpectedly pleased, the corners of his mouth turning upwards as he regards T’Challa. “So, you are worried, then.”

Ah. T'Challa tilts his head, regarding M’Baku thoughtfully. “Should I not be?”

“Of course not. But I am used to your foolishness.”

T’Challa sighs, shaking his head, but he supposes it is a good thing that M’Baku took it so well in the end. If he attempted the same suggestion in Wakanda, he cannot even imagine the hell that would be raised. “I need to get going,” he says.

“Ah, wait, come here. Come here.” M’Baku waves him closer with a regal flick of his wrist, and T’Challa obeys, bemused. M’Baku takes his hand when he is near enough, pulls it close to press a quick kiss to T’Challa’s knuckles and then his ring. T’Challa feels himself grow warm at the sight of M’Baku’s lips lingering against the vibranium, and M’Baku grins up at him knowingly, his tongue flicking out over his bottom lip.

“Enjoy yourself,” M’Baku says, releasing him after a moment longer. He picks up the morning newspaper, flicking it nonchalantly to the middle, and T’Challa knows that he is not reading a single word.

“We should go out afterwards,” T’Challa says, stroking his thumb absently against his ring. He imagines that it feels warmer. “For dinner. Somewhere nice.”

“Nice,” M’Baku repeats, immediately suspicious.

“We hardly get a moment to ourselves back home.” T’Challa smiles at him, soft and sweet, and sees the exact moment that M’Baku wavers and yields. “I’ll send a car for you.”

“Will I have to wear those damn clothes?” M’Baku asks suddenly, when T’Challa is at the door. “T'Challa. T’Challa, answer me-”

**

“Will you stop that?” T’Challa asks mildly, as M’Baku mutters a low curse and reaches down into his lap again. “I told you, that is how it fits.”

“Well, it is stupid,” M’Baku says. He abandons his efforts and settles for spreading his legs as wide as physically possible, his knees knocking against T’Challa’s beneath the table. “How do you go about this all day?”

“It is not so bad, when you are used to it.” T’Challa clears his throat and adjusts his menu. “What are you having?” Upon further reflection, perhaps he should’ve chosen a less conspicuous restaurant. One that did not require formal dress.

He can hardly be blamed for the temptation; M’Baku wears a tuxedo far better than himself, the lines of his black jacket smooth and unbroken over the broad stretch of his shoulders. He smells of T’Challa’s cologne, dabbed over his throat and wrists, and T’Challa briefly imagines M’Baku standing in the bathroom, glass bottle in hand and fingertips at his pulse points.

“Mm.” M’Baku raises his eyebrows, his fingers pressed to his lips as he leans his elbow against the table. His knee presses meaningfully against the inside of T’Challa’s leg.  

“Stop that,” T'Challa tells him, appalled by his own amusement. “I don't think they serve that here.”

“Ah, but you are the richest man on Earth, no? For you, I think, they will serve anything.” M’Baku’s eyebrows lift even higher, wiggling with alarming speed.

“What are we even talking about,” T'Challa mutters. Perhaps this was his mistake, to think they could attempt anything remotely close to a conventional courtship.

M’Baku drops his menu with a sigh, shifting again in his seat. “Your idea of _nice_ is, ah, how to put this kindly? A poor one.”

T’Challa frowns, but has to concede that, for what was meant to be an enjoyable evening out, M’Baku looks even more uncomfortable than he did at their first council meeting.

In the end, he waves their server over and pays for the full bill with an apologetic smile, and he strides out of the gleaming restaurant with M’Baku on his arm.

“You didn’t have to do that,” M’Baku murmurs, later. They sit on a sand-scrubbed wooden bench at a beachside parking lot, balancing styrofoam boxes of steaming pad thai on their knees and watching the moonlight shiver on the black waves below. M’Baku’s bow tie lies loosened beneath his collar, the first two buttons of his shirt undone and his jacket folded carelessly over his lap.

“Hm?” T’Challa swipes at a bit of sauce on his chin and licks it slowly from his thumb. M’Baku’s eyes are hot on him by the time he lowers his hand, and he bites back a smile as he pretends not to notice. “Well, you seem to be enjoying yourself far more now.”

”It’s a good view,” M’Baku concedes. The sand shines silver in the night, the ocean a dark expanse beyond that. M’Baku is not watching the ocean.

T’Challa shifts his leg, feels the splintering wood below catch at the fabric of his slacks, and hums warmly when M’Baku’s palm closes over it a second later. “I could show you a better one.” His voice lowers in pitch, accompanied by a rumble deep in his chest, and M’Baku’s fingers tighten around his thigh.

The trip back to the villa is a short one.

**

“Ahhh.” M’Baku strips out of his slacks faster than T’Challa thought humanly possible, then flings them across the room with a certain sense of vindication. He stands then with his hands on his hips in the middle of the room, shirt drawn tight across his chest, legs spread wide and-

“You didn’t wear the underwear,” T’Challa says, after a brief pause. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. He undoes his own tie, then folds it carefully over the back of a chair before reaching for his shirt cuffs. He should not be surprised, he thinks wryly, but he certainly has no complaints.

“Of course not.” M’Baku snorts, as if it should’ve been obvious. In retrospect, perhaps it should’ve been. He turns away to face the bed, which offers no less distracting of a view. “Those chafe even more than the rest.”

“Mm.” T’Challa begins undoing his shirt, concentrating on slipping each button through the fabric. “Is that so.”

“Next time, take me to a place where I can wear nothing at all.” M’Baku flings himself on the bed with shameless abandon, rolling onto his back and throwing his arms out. His legs spread apart, and T’Challa eyes the soft, formidable curve of M’Baku’s cock against his thigh. “Or at least warn me not to come.”

“You are very prone to theatrics.” T’Challa shrugs off his shirt, lets it slide down his arms. He can feel M’Baku’s eyes on him, heavy and intentional, and he slows his movements, dangling a sleeve on a fingertip before allowing the shirt to fall.

“Theatrics!” M’Baku repeats indignantly, a moment too late in his distraction, and T’Challa bends his head to hide his grin.

“Yes.”

“I’m hurt,” M’Baku announces, shaking his head sadly. “Insulted. Wounded.”  

T’Challa kneels on the edge of the bed between M’Baku’s legs, stroking his hands idly up M’Baku’s thighs. “Whatever shall I do,” he asks, “to make it up to you?” He keeps his voice low, the way that he knows M’Baku likes, and sure enough, M’Baku’s eyelids lower, his eyes dark and soft as he watches T’Challa.

“I could think of a few things.” M’Baku bends a leg, rubbing his knee against T’Challa’s side. T’Challa catches it and presses it gently back down to the bed, mouth twitching at the way M’Baku’s breath halts briefly.

“I better start a list.” T’Challa makes as if to get up, and M’Baku’s hand shoots forward, tugging him back sharply by the wrist.

“Oh- come here, you.” M’Baku yanks him down, hooking a possessive arm around his neck, and pulls him into a kiss while T’Challa is still laughing. It is hard at first, nearly bruising, but M’Baku gentles soon enough, his large palm heavy and warm on T’Challa’s jaw.  

“You are impossible,” M’Baku grumbles. “A terrible man.”

“Careful now, this is your king you’re talking about.” T'Challa lowers his hips, lets them drag down slowly over M’Baku’s. He can feel M’Baku’s cock hardening through the fabric of his slacks, twitching with growing interest as T’Challa grinds down against him again.

“Psh,” M’Baku tuts dismissively, but his fingers tighten on T’Challa’s back, digging between his shoulder blades. “I think he will forgive me.”

T’Challa presses a thumb beneath M’Baku’s jaw to tilt his head back, mouthing his way down M’Baku’s throat to kiss at his collarbone, and he feels M’Baku give a low hum of breathless approval. “So sure of yourself,” he murmurs. “Are you ever not?”

“I wonder,” M’Baku answers, managing an astonishing amount of smugness with a single look. He stifles a groan when T’Challa bites gently at his shoulder, then licks down a stripe of ink on his chest, following it down to nuzzle at his sternum. T’Challa feels the sound vibrating beneath his mouth, the rhythm of M’Baku’s heart pounding through him, against him. It’s hot, hypnotizing, and if he closes his eyes, it will carry him away.

He draws out his touches, keeps them light and erratic until M’Baku is huffing and squirming, his skin hot and damp with sweat. He sucks at the base of M’Baku’s throat again, working the beginnings of a slick mark there, and grunts out a surprised exhale when M’Baku abruptly shoves at his shoulders, tipping him onto his side.

“Damn tease,” M’Baku grates out, throwing a knee over T’Challa’s belly to straddle his waist, and T’Challa feels a rumble rising helplessly through him. “Always making me do all the work.” He reaches down to pluck at T’Challa’s slacks, popping a few buttons in his impatience, and finally pushes a hand down inside T’Challa’s underwear to grip him tight.

Afterwards, as they lie panting and boneless, M’Baku draws his fingers through the mess on T’Challa’s belly and laps at them lazily.

“Don’t,” T’Challa says, because he still clings to some semblance of embarrassment. The word comes out more slurred than he expects, and M’Baku’s mouth opens in a silent laugh.

“T’Challa,” M’Baku murmurs affectionately. “ _Kumkani._ ” T’Challa’s breath catches, his heart in his throat. M’Baku strokes his clean hand down T’Challa’s side, leans down to nuzzle at his cheek. His beard scratches against T’Challa’s own, lips curving at T’Challa’s jaw. “Are you still alive?”

”That remains to be seen.” T'Challa lifts himself up just enough to roll to one side, his arm flung across M’Baku’s chest. He feels M’Baku huff a quiet laugh, and he presses an open kiss to the inked curve of M’Baku’s shoulder.

The air is charged and warm, the musk of sex and cologne still clinging to them. M’Baku should wear his scent more frequently, T’Challa decides, somewhere in his recuperating mind. He considers voicing this thought, then abandons it for another.

“Next month,” he begins, and is promptly distracted by M’Baku settling decidedly on top of him. “Oof. As I was saying…” he winds his arms around M’Baku, adjusting to the weight, “I have a summit in Switzerland in a month.”

M’Baku grunts, a drowsy sound that precedes sleep, and he scrubs his beard across T’Challa’s chest warningly. “Sleep.”

“And here I was, about to invite you to come along.” T’Challa settles a palm on M’Baku’s back and feels the breath that he holds for a fraction too long, surprise tensing his muscles before relaxing loosely once more.

“Would have come anyway,” M’Baku mutters, in a way that invites no doubt as to how he would manage the feat unaided, and T’Challa smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Send requests and yell with me on tumblr @mangopuffs  
> Twitter: @_mangochi


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